


An appellation for the only one

by luna65



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Gen, POV Third Person Omniscient, Time Skips, gratuitous guitar hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna65/pseuds/luna65
Summary: What's in a name?  The meaning of gratitude and love.





	An appellation for the only one

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story I was working on when "The Bloody Quartet" took over my brain, but I really wanted to finish it!  
> It's more-or-less straight from Brian's explanation of how his guitar got her official name, many years after its' creation (but with a few fictional liberties of course).

Talk of business plans and branding identity and all that rubbish...all he wanted to tell them was; _This is a piece of me which everyone can have for themselves, if they wish. And a piece of Dad too._ That was all which mattered. But Pete sat him down and delivered the hard truth.

“Boss, if you want to finally get it right, if you _really_ want to duplicate the Old Lady down to the last detail then you know what needs to be done. You’re gonna have to let them take her apart.”

Brian knew he was being paranoid but he held her tighter, imagining their shared distress. “They can x-ray her well enough.”

“You said you want to duplicate every part as closely as possible. There’s only one way.”

He continued to hold her with his eyes closed, and the world melted away. All which remained was his love and ambition within his hands, against his body, just as it had been for nearly all of his life. One of the glimpses which came back to him was being escorted into the morning sun of a particularly momentous day, his nerves humming, thousands of people cheering so far below, the moment awash in national pride.

“Right then, my love,” he whispered to her, “Let’s go make a great noise for Great Britain, shall we?”

 

Brian entered the jazz club room somewhat breathless from having lugged an electric guitar and amp up several flights of stairs. He stopped short to find his would-be drummer in the midst of his kit and smiled apologetically.

“Rog, man, I woulda helped you with that if I’d known you were turning up early! My lecture only just let out.”

”No worries,” Roger replied, as he tapped on each drum and made adjustments with a tuning key. “I’m used to lugging the lot by meself of an evening.”

“Tim should be here straightaway if his car is running, later if not.”

“Coming from Ealing, you said?”

“Right. But we can have a play while we’re waiting, yes?”

“Naturally, I’m almost done here.”

“What are you doing, exactly?”

“What do **you** do before you play, eh? Tune up, right? Drums need it too.”

“They do?” Brian looked positively flummoxed.

Roger laughed. “Yeah, I’d ask if you can tell the difference but I bet you have no ruddy idea, do you?”

A blush crept into the other’s face. “Likely not.”

“So let’s see this one-off of yours,” Roger said, figuring a change of subject was needed and he had been curious to view Brian’s hand-built guitar after reading about it in the letter he had received from Brian. When Brian and Tim had first visited him in his shared flat, the two had brought along acoustic guitars to play.

Brian opened the guitar case and the other huffed in surprise.

“Coo-ey she’s nice! Your dad must be a right boffin then!”

“He is, but **I** designed it.”

“Well plug in, chappie and let’s make a ruckus!”

“Not much of one, mind. It’s still lecture hours and they get stroppy if we're a bit too crash-bang-boom.”

Roger chuckled. “Well they just don’t know that they need a bit of rock n’roll ‘bout the place now, do they?”

“All my convincing has been for naught, I fear.”

They laughed, and each thought that it was nice to meet someone you could joke with, and only hoped that this sympathetic vibe would hold for the more important task of playing together. Brian shed his coat and scarf and got himself sorted for their chemistry check.

“Ah I see you’ve got a warhorse there,” Roger noted, pointing his drumstick at Brian’s Vox AC30.

“Yeah I had a go at building amplifiers but they never turned out quite how I like. It’s all about the right sort of distortion, and the AC30s are the best, I find.”

“Oh good gravy, you haven’t bored the lad to death quite yet I see,” Tim quipped as he entered the room equally loaded down with guitar and amp.

“Hey man,” Roger said to the other, raising a hand in greeting. “I love talkin’ ‘bout guitars. I mighta been a guitarist except drummers were far more in demand where I come from.”  


“Ah but just wait until Bri gives you the uni lecture course on how he designed the thing. I should hold an actual degree in the subject now after hearing ‘bout it for yonks.”

“Valuable technical advice, it was,” Brian said with a smirk as he plugged in and tuned his unique piece of equipment.

“Makes for quite a conversation piece at parties, I imagine,” Roger noted, making final adjustments behind the kit.

“Oh it would if May actually _talked_ to anybody,” Tim cracked and Brian made a _do shut up_ face at him before they, as one, broke into Cream’s version of “I’m So Glad,” with Roger having called out the song a moment prior.

And upon hearing the strange-yet-also-familiar sound emanating from that one-off guitar, Roger was convinced that he had fallen into the situation he had been looking for all along.

 

Three of the four people having a play in the chilly echoing theatre had been impressed immediately by the other person, who despite his reticence could _fucking well play_ without excuses or bluster or even apology. Plug in, tune up, keep the beat.

Brian and Roger exchanged a glance which might have been something like _Oh we’re keeping this one for certain._

But even after a jam which felt good to all of them and decent run-throughs of songs from the band’s burgeoning oeuvre, it was difficult to tell what he was thinking. About anything.

“Want to give it a go then, dear?” Freddie asked. “You seem to know what we’re about, and we’ve got a plan, we’re very disciplined.”

“I find plans are useful things,” John replied, “and yes, I’d like to join if you’ll have me. So there’s no one else you’re considering?”

 _Are you joking?!_ Roger thought but did not want to say. _Will you have **us** is the question!_

“You’re the best one,” Brian said with a smile. “So we’ll have to sort out rehearsal time around other things but we generally prefer three times a week at least.”

John nodded amicably. “I’ve nothing at all going on Tuesdays,” he told them. “But might I have a look at your guitar? Harris said you built it yourself?”

Brian smiled proudly. “Of course,” he said, lifting it off his body and gingerly handing it to the other, who took it out of his hands with all the care and respect he felt was due his device.

 _Oh he’s **perfect**_ , Brian thought.

“Yes, that’s Fireplace,” Freddie teased, “the core of our superior sound.”

“Don’t call it that, Fred, it’s not nice.”

“I mean no disrespect, darling, you know that.”

“Why -”

“Part of the wood came from an old fireplace, you see. It’s all salvaged bits and bobs, whatever my dad and me could find.”

“Amazing - is he a luthier?”

“No, he’s an draughtsman, but he can build _anything_. Anything at all. I’ve had a hand in it myself, but I’m not nearly as clever.”

“I like to build things as well.”

“How much of your own gear have you got?” Roger asked.

“I’ve got another amp for gigs, if that’s what you mean. Just the one bass, though.”

“Fair enough.”

“What have you built then?” Brian asked and the others in the room groaned and decided to pack it in, moving the drums and amps into a storage cupboard at the back of the hall.

“Oi, we’re going down The Kensington, when you lot have completed your meeting of the minds,” Roger called as he ran up the steps behind Freddie and Chris.

“I just search about for things;” John continued, “I like to dig through builders’ skips, one never knows what could be found.”

“Don’t I know it!” Brian replied, placing his guitar back in its’ case, securing it within then locking the case and taking up his coat and scarf.

“Do you keep it here with the other gear?” John asked. 

“Not on your life!” Brian exclaimed. “She goes with me wherever I may be.”

“Does she have a name, then?”

“No, does yours?”

“Not particularly romantic about it, but it seems you are.”

Brian chuckled ruefully and trailed a hand through his thick hair. “She’s a part of me, she’s mine, but I never thought to name her. It’s almost as if I think she can’t be named, she’s too unique.”

John nodded. “Did you draw up schematics?”

“My dad did, I’ll show them to you sometime. Fancy a drink, then?”

“Rather difficult to manage with all this,” John said, pointing to his gear.

“You can stash it at our flat, no worries.”

“Lead on, then,” John said, gesturing up the stairs.

“You’re easy to talk to - anyone ever tell you that, Deaky?” Brian asked.

At the top of the stairs Brian turned out the lights in the room and John pulled the door shut.

“Every so often,” he replied, smiling at a joke only amusing to himself.

 

 

“Harris, where did you find that guy?” Brian demanded, looking askance at the new laborer who was currently setting up his Vox amps at stage left.

“He came highly recommended from the Mott people. Bri, you need your own man, I keep telling you that. And now that we’re actually on the road in the big time, as it were, it’s in the budget.”

“He just seems rather…”

“What? I mean, he’s not your Aunt Fanny but he can tote and carry, know what I mean? All these guys are the same, I reckon. If he’s not doin’ the job then we’ll be shut of him, but you’ve got to _let him_ try first.”

“Yes, alright.”

“I’ve got my own section to look after now, you know.”

“Understood.”

John sighed and was thankful that Brian was at least sensible about change, if not always accepting.

 

“Jock, what are you doing?!”

Brian’s tone was thoroughly horrified, and his roadie looked at him with an expression veering between puzzlement and annoyance.

“Changing out the strings on the Old Lady. As you do before a gig.”

“I designed this guitar so that one doesn’t need to change the strings so often. I believe I informed you of that particular fact.”

The other man drew himself up to his full height - which was still less than that of his boss - and with all the experience he could muster, spoke calmly but directly.

“I appreciate that no one knows this instrument better than you because you designed it, you built it, and for all I know you’re married to it in some countries. But I have far more experience of what happens on the road than you do, and it’s a wear-and-tear you’re not gonna get from two weeks in Cornwall playing every pub that’ll have you.”

The hazel eyes of the other bore into him with a flash of fury, but their owner kept silent.

“I change the strings to avoid problems, don’t I, not because it’s causing stress on your best girl. You fuss over her and I can hardly pry her out of your hands, but I’ll never do her dirty, I swear it. Hell, I might as well be her secret lover for all the attention I give her! Never in my life have I _pampered_ a guitar as you’ve got me doing now!”

“She will never love you, Jock,” Brian intoned, his anger transmuted to jest. “My old girl and me, we’re in it for life.”

“And well you should be,” the other replied, tightening up the last string and looking down the neck. “She taught you to be a man, after all.”

Brian took the guitar and cradled it against him, leaning the neck upon his face.

“Was he gentle, my love? You’d tell your old Bri if he hurt you, right?”

Jock laughed uproariously and bowed to his boss in acquiescence.

“Her reputation remains unsullied, Mr. May.”

 

 

“Ingenuity, Bri - that’s what is behind every new technological development, every great invention. If you believe in your vision you have to believe you’re the one who can make it work.”

When he had brought up the idea to his dad he was ready with a well-stated proposal. His father was always willing to listen as long as he thought the argument sensible and rational.

“I can think of a dozen ways an electric guitar can be better!”

“And what are they, then?”

He had written out a list and read each point passionately but with a touch of cold logic.

“Well let’s draw it up then, shall we? Let’s see what can be done.”

 

 

“Your guitar, the one you’ve played throughout your career, it’s quite famous on its’ own by now, isn’t it?”

“Yes, deservedly so, the Old Lady has served me well all these years, since I was 17.”

“Is that what you call...it...her?”

“Red Special, that’s her proper name. Because she’s one of a kind.”

“And such a beautiful colour.”

“It is, no one else I knew had a guitar that colour, I always knew which one was mine!” 

“Our guest today is guitarist Brian May of Queen here to tell us about his brand-new solo album _Back To The Light_ and if we’re lucky he might play us something on his famous Red Special?”

“Maybe - I’ll have to see what I can remember!”

“We’ll be right back with Brian May.”

 _Well Dad, now I know you were right all along about what her name should be_ , he thought to himself. _She was never anything less than **special**._


End file.
